A life in the cars of Eric Barrass

I was nine years old when I first drove a car.
It was a 1923 Morris Cowley with
a splendid nickel radiator which I
was allowed to polish.

The car lived in a slightly decrepit ex-stable behind the house in the little
town of Exmouth in which we lived. On this occasion I was sitting in the
drivers seat pretending, as only a nine year old can, to beat the legendary
Count Zbolowski round Brooklands track. I pored over Autocar. Price fourpence,
half-an-inch thick and larded with reports of the great racing men and
their amazing feats.

Sitting in the car on a cushion, I could see below the top rim of the steering
wheel, but could not reach the pedals. Emboldened by the fact that my
father was temporarily away, stationed in Bristol, I experimented with
the pedals - two big, one little. By pressing my upper back and neck firmly
against the seat squab, I found I could reach each in turn. With thumping
heart I followed my fathers routine. Switching on and firmly pressing
the starter, I was rewarded with a
few halting turns and then the engine fired. It sounded like thunder and
I was terrified. After a few minutes fear was replaced by a sort of cocky
confidence - all I had to do now was the bit with the levers and pedals.
And I did. After a few desperate contortions of pushing and heaving, the
lever with the knob ground backward and could no longer be wobbled about.
I thought for a bit and realised that all I now needed to do was start
the engine. I switched on and pressed the starter button. Need I say more?
The car staggered forward, butted the wooden wall of the stable and shoved its nose into
the yard beyond. The sound of crashing timber and the horror of what I
had done is forever etched into my memory. The fact that I destroyed the
stable I was parked in front of may have had something to do with the
fact that the only example I had was from my father who simply had no
sense of co-ordination.

In getting to grips with driving himself, my father employed the mechanic from the
local garage to teach him by his usual method of instruction by numbers,
like the born military man he was. The lessons went on for weeks, with
me allowed to sit on the dicky seat to observe. My father finally managed
to reach the road and we drove across Woodbury Common in a series of leaps
and grinding gears. My fathers eyes followed
every movement of hand and foot, thus leaving little time to observe the
road. My mother refused to travel with us. The lessons continued. The
climax was reached when, one evening, the garage man rang the front doorbell.
I answered it. There he stood, cleanly and soberly dressed, leggings and
brown boots agleam. He carried one of those lovely old business cheque
books with a stiff cover. I led him to my father who greeted him cordially
and offered a drink - respectfully refused.
In agonized phrases he explained the purpose of his visit. "Sir, if
you will let me off future driving lessons, I will buy the car back at
the price you paid". My father carefully pondered a proposal he clearly
could not understand. His confidence in driving was growing. The battered
wings and shattered rear light was proof positive. Choosing his words
with obvious care, he said, "My dear man, I had fully intended to
tell you that I needed no further lessons and need trouble you no further".

It was a long time ago but I vividly remember the utter relief that flowed through
that poor stricken man. It was as if he had received some kind of potent
injection. He grew in stature.

My fathers driving never improved. He drove with brash determination and never changed
gear until the engine was about to stall. Any examples of appalling driving
and he was convinced that it was due to a fault in the design of the car.

At the age of 14, I discovered that one could hold a motorcycle licence. Thus
armed I plagued my uncle, who housed me during the holidays from school
when my parents were out of the country, until he bought me a very elderly
Douglas motorcycle. A flat twin-engine laid fore and aft, with a lovely,
shiny fly-wheel. On that old machine I chugged for miles. A dear old bike,
to be replaced with a series of clapped-out machines culminating in a
Scott Flying Squirrel. I never aspired to a new motorcycle or car until
the generous 21st birthday present from my father - an Austin 65 in bright
scarlet. The Scott - a twin-cylinder water-cooled two-stroke with an open
frame and two-speed pedal-operated gearbox stole my heart. Does anything
in my memory compare to that exclusive noise - the Scott yowl. How I loved it.

By now military involvement, designed to improve my warring qualities, sought
to prepare me for the conflict we knew to be inevitable. One Mechanical
Transport course at the old Royal tanks Depot at Bovington introduced
me formally to the Otto Cycle. We were told that the engine was a Rolls-Royce
40/50. It took me years to deduce that it had undoubtedly come from a
Roll-Royce armoured car, many of which were still in military use. Perhaps
that was where the seed was sown.

My cars were, invariably - to be charitable - well worn. The cheapest was a 1924
Singer 10, a funny little car with a four-cylinder side-valve engine.
I bought it in a bar in Plymouth following a Services rugby match during
that wonderful state of euphora called youth, beer and sharing a common
interest. Our captain traditionally bought the first round. There were
at least 20 of us and, with beer at about fourpence a pint, he found he
was short of the six shillings and fourpence required. Honour demanded
that he stood his round so he offered his car for sale. His car which was well known to everyone
except me.

Then carless, I asked a simple question - does it go? Apparently it did so, pulling
out a ten bob note, I bought the Singer. The following day I went to collect
this dubious bargain. It had no hood, no spare wheel, glass was missing
from the windscreen and one floor board was absent. After a series of
minor explosions and with belching smoke she started. The carburettor
burst into flames. Calmly watching this for a few seconds, my friend doused
the flames with a wet sack from the back seat. "No problem now,"
he declared, "the carb is warm and she will run". And she did.

My future in-laws had given grudging
permission for me to drive their daughter from Devon to relatives in Grimsby.
Her father was a magistrate and a motorist two notches further up the
driving ladder than my father. Brought up on horses, delighting in salmon
fishing, rough shooting and fair play, he deprecated his daughters delight
in jazz and, I suspect, myself. He had once had to deal with me for speeding,
fining me half a crown and advising me that he, "seldom found it
necessary to exceed five and 30."

At the wheel - my magistrate father-in-law who "seldom found it necessary to exceed five and 30"

On the way to Grimsby, in Gloucestershire, the worst happened - we ran a big
end bearing. The proprietor of the local garage sized up the job and said
that it would not be ready that day. This created a problem. The current
acceptance of casual night stops was not then even a light at the end
of the tunnel and my companion made it clear that she would take all steps
necessary to ensure that I acted like a gentleman. As she was holding a four-inch hatpin at the
time, I took her at her word.

"Her indoors" in our Austin Seven Nippy

Following a succession of Austin Sevens, I found my first 3-litre Bentley in a local
garage after it had been pushed over the cliffs at Peranporth. I saw it
by accident and did a deal with a 14/40 Talbot fabric two-door coup.

The Bentley had no starter or dynamo but the engine ran beautifully. Push starting
was essential but, luckily fatigue parties were available at one end and
my (by then) fiances family lived on a hill. The Bentley was followed
by a Riley Nine tourer which was soon replaced by a flashy Singer Le Mans.

My much-beloved, never to be forgotten Lagonda.

Preparations for war were, by this time, hotting up and training became intense. My
final pre-war mount was a 41/4 litre Bentley in excellent order but expensive
at 50. On mobilization my company
was sent to defend Andover Aerodrome. From what, I was never quite sure.
Petrol was severely rationed and private cars forbidden - the car was
highly prized in ferrying RAF aircrews to happy debauchery at the Octagon
in Southampton. My CQMS discovered that the bowsers used to fuel the aircraft
always had a few gallons left in the tank which was a sort of perk. In
return for transport this was transferred to the Bentleys tank, together
with two gallons of paraffin to modify the explosive effect of 100 octane
fuel. Driving in the early hours through the New Forest with almost non-existent
light filtering through the war-time headlamp masks, carrying a crammed-in
load of young RAF officers in full song was a memorable experience. The
arrival of the ubiquitous, war-winner - the Jeep, brought a new dimension to my time in the services. Light,
manoeuvrable to a degree, the acquisition of a personal Jeep became an
obsessive ambition, happily achieved.

In peacetime, now with the erstwhile girlfriend as wife and a burgeoning family, I was
moved to purchase a Rolls-Royce 20/25 - registration number YY - which
happily carried six of us in splendour with a canoe on the roof and a
huge pram on the luggage grid. It climbed hills like a cat and cruised
at a happy 55 mph. Of all the cars we have owned she will forever have a place in our hearts.

Two back seat drivers in the making.

It was in 1959 that I heard about a Club for enthusiasts. A new phase started in
our lives - attending Club events. This frequently involved fairly long
trips and, as I often had to work on Saturdays, very early starts on Sundays
- not entirely popular with the rest of the family. However, it put the
smaller ones to sleep and allowed Grace and I the opportunity
to enjoy the delights of Rolls-Royce motoring. I was consumed. Never again
would I be my own man, I was owned by a motor car - the motor car. I wanted
for nothing.

Rallies of all kinds brought fresh faces and new friends into our lives. The spell
grew stronger. After YY we acquired another 20/25, a Park Ward sports
saloon which only enhanced our pleasure.

In 1961 I was invited to join the Club Committee and we acquired a Mark VI Bentley
which was to be our daily conveyance for nearly 17 years.

The serene therapy of settling aboard, closing the doors on the world and gliding
away - perhaps into the sunset - beyond which, one day we shall find the
man who has brought us so much joy through his matchless creations - Henry
Royce; I would be content with that.

Proprietor: R.R.E.C Limited. A company registered in England and Wales, No 1154113.